Paphian
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: For Aya Macchiato. - - -  Because, sometimes, you're just that desperate to prove to yourself that you're still alive.
1. Paphian

_Title:_ Paphian

_Author:_ Neko-chan

_Fandom:_ Harry Potter

_Rating:_ M

_Pairing:_ Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

_Disclaimer:_ If you honestly think that you'd get money out of suing a college student… HA. The joke's on you. (Yes: wish that I owned, wish that I could be basking in the incredibly large Super Power that HP has become, but don't get that right. Buuuuuu. D:)

_Summary:_ Because, sometimes, you're just _that_ desperate to prove to yourself that you're still alive.

_Author's Note:_ Second one-shot gift for Aya Macchiato. _Sticks and Stones_ was relatively short and intended for crackish amusement (mostly on my part, but if anyone else was—surprisingly—entertained, then _awesome_~), but this one-shot is much more serious than the previous one-shot. _Paphian_ deviates a little bit from Aya Macchiato's request in that it takes place during neither 5th or 6th years and instead during 7th. Anyway, regardless, I hope that you enjoy it!

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**Paphian**

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_paphian – adj; of or pertaining to love, esp. illicit physical love_

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The first time that Draco Malfoy ever killed someone, he had spent the night in his bathroom, vomiting out the lingering scent of death—the taste of blood that embedded itself in his mouth, clinging viciously to the back of his tongue and refusing to let him forget and immerse himself in oblivion. He had spent the night sprawled out over the tile of the floor, shuddering at the memories that came to him: he was a broken thing, soft sobs catching in his throat as he tried, tried so desperately, to _forget_.

But death is something that cannot be _forgotten_.

Only remembered.

And so the boy—the boy who was forced to become a man much, much too early—wept for the childhood that his Master had forced him to leave behind; he wept for himself because self-pity is an affliction that all share, and he wept for his family, an ancient line fallen so low that each must beg for scraps from the table—hoping that that muted begging wouldn't garner the attention of their Master. He wept, too, for the lives that he had been forced to take—pureblood, Muggleborn, Muggle, _all_—death claimed each and every living being, and it did not matter in the end as to what they had been when alive. Death brought about equality in such a way that Draco finally, _finally_ understood: and understood, too, that that knowledge came too belatedly.

He lay upon the floor of his bathroom, eyes closed and refusing to move, and allowed the hours pass him by; the constellations shifted and spun high above in the heavens, circling the moon with playful faerie dances that did not at all suit the Malfoy heir's mood. Instead, Draco lay: with breath stuttering and eyes shut against the demons of the night (one of which had been welcomed into his own home), and pressed his cheek snugly against the cool stone beneath his body in hopes that it could cool the fever of self-hatred.

It did not help.

But, then again, Draco did not expect it to.

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Green, those eyes.

They were the color of springtime, the shade of life that sprung up from the ground surrounding Malfoy Manor: it was the shade of green that promised cool brooks and soft grass to sprawl out upon. It was a warm sort of green, verdant... green the color of emeralds. Green, too, Draco had learned firsthand... Killing Curse-green.

Draco glanced away from Harry Potter's quietly accepting gaze, and the blonde pureblood slightly shook his head.

"Are you _sure_, Draco?" his aunt Bellatrix hissed out, eyes snapping as her wand angrily spat a black spark.

"I can't be certain," Draco answered, Adam's apple bobbing slightly as he swallowed. He was lying, _knew_ that his aunt knew that he was lying, but there had been so much death in the Manor that Draco... he just couldn't bring himself to sentence another to the type of death that he had seen firsthand, the type of death that he, himself, had been forced to participate in. "The disfiguration is too extensive. It _could_ be him... or it might _not_ be him. I can't be certain. Not completely."

"Come, come, little nephew," the woman crooned as her sister glanced away, afraid for her son but more afraid for herself and the punishments that would soon enough be awaiting them all. Still crooning cajolingly, Bellatrix continued: "You've spent six years of school with the Potter boy. You must _surely_ be able to recognize him by now, disfigurement or _not_." The woman smiled at that, hand darting out to wrap long, spider-like fingers in Harry's hair. She yanked his head back, baring his swollen face to Draco's eyes, and Draco tried as hard as he could, but... his gaze still got caught in the other's.

That fucking green-eyed gaze that asked him not to do this, that seemed to finally _see_ Draco in a way that hadn't been capable of (that neither had been capable of, if he wanted to be honest with himself) during their first year and the first rejection. Now, though... now those eyes saw and what stung the most was that the other boy seemed to _expect_ Draco to be able to rise above this situation, to be better than what his hell of a life had forced him to become. Seeing those eyes, those expectations and the acceptance that would come if Draco did sell him out to the other Death Eaters...

It wasn't _fair_!

Where had this boy been when Draco had needed a friend last year? Where had this boy been in his _first_ year when all the blonde wanted was to get to know this boy, this boy with the gentle smile and challenging gaze? Where had this boy been in all of the following years, the gaze that had hardened with hate as the Weasel poured vitriol and prejudice in this boy's, in _Harry Potter's_, ears? _It wasn't fair!_ And, spitefully, Draco couldn't help but wonder if things would have gone differently, if he and his family wouldn't have been in this situation if _this boy_ had just been willing to take Draco's hand on the train.

Angry and bitter at where he had been forced to end up, Draco lashed out; his palm struck the side of Harry's face, sending the already-broken glasses clattering across the floor, and he watched with silvery, frustrated eyes as the Boy Savior went down without a sound of protest. "It's not Potter," the Malfoy heir told his aunt, words spitting viciously from his mouth as a sneer twisted his mouth into a rictus parody of a smiel. "If it had been, I would have sold him out easily enough. If it had been Potter, he would have tried to fight back. No _Potter_ ever took a beating without a struggle, without attempting to fight back. They're too _Gryffindor_ to do otherwise, Aunt. This is just some filthy Mudblood that the Snatchers were foolish enough to capture instead of the actual _Potter_."

He spat on the figure that hadn't bothered to get up from the floor before turning abruptly to leave the others behind; with feet _tap-tap-tapping_ angrily upon the marble of Malfoy Manor's floors, Draco tried his hardest to forget _those eyes_, the eyes that he had come to learn how to despise, and something broke within his chest when he realized that, no matter what he tried, he couldn't bring himself to hate the Boy-Who-Lived. Not anymore, not after seeing the Dark Lord and learning what true hate meant.

With breath that shuddered out, the blonde pureblood trembled as the tension and fear and despair finally took hold of him; Draco's knees gave out and he fell to the floor. It didn't take much to drag himself over to an alcove that was hidden away from prying eyes and, rubbing his face roughly against the stone to try and alleviate some of the internal anguish, Draco finally allowed himself to silently sob. _It wasn't fair - he didn't want this - how could anyone ever want this?_ How could anyone ever be willing to become a prisoner in their own home, locked away and used and beaten in every way possible while only able to ever respond with, "Yes, my Lord." He could feel himself breaking, falling off piece by piece, and Draco couldn't help but wonder, terrified at the very thought, that perhaps this was what it felt like to lose his humanity. He wondered if, with time, he would become just like the Dark Lord: barely recognizably human in form, heart, and soul. Essentially, a broken person that the world looked upon and could find neither pity nor compassion for, only fear.

Breath quickening, Draco's fingernails dug into the solidness of the stone walls as he whispered, "Somebody, please save me."

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Midnight passed, the witching hour that brought about the dark celebrations of the Death Eaters: raids were beginning to happen nightly, each man or woman chanting out, "Magic is Might" as they struck, taking down all those who stood before them. Death was their banner, an etched skull with a serpent to stand in for its forked tongue. Lies, death, destruction: there was nothing positive about this new regime, only sorrow and the bated waiting for dawn to arrive to banish the shadows from their hiding places. It was this hour, the breathless gasp between true night and the oncoming day, that Draco and his family used to celebrate joyously.

But there were no more celebrations, no more open arms; open arms welcomed a vulnerability towards others that no one could truly afford at this moment. Vulnerability meant that it would become that much easier for the other Death Eaters to take advantage of you, and being taken advantage of meant pure Oblivion. There were no friendships here, in this house that was supposed to be a home, a sanctuary. There was fear and mistrust, a Limbo of non-existence that stretched and stretched _and stretched_, warping time and relationships until Draco looked upon his own parents with fear and mistrust. These were the people that he had fought to keep safe, had anguished over and feared for; and these, too, were the very same people that had welcomed the Dark Lord in with open arms, had allowed the creature to take hold of their vulnerabilities and bring them low, so low, from where they had once managed to stand. These people were only ghosts of who they had once been: there was no glory or honor or pride, only abject humiliation.

Perhaps it was these thoughts that had Draco making his way down the steps that led to the dungeons deep beneath Malfoy Manor.

He wasn't supposed to be here, was supposed to be up top and getting rooms ready for when the Death Eaters returned. But this was a rebellion, a small one that no one else had to truly know about. A secret, that Draco could keep all for himself. And thus, the blonde Malfoy heir made his way down into the bowels of his family's one-time home, careful not to make too much noise as each polished, poised shoe placed itself on each step with an assurance, a confidence that Draco knew he did not feel. But it was the appearance that was the most important, the appearance of being in control. That was why he was wearing his best dress robes for this visit, despite the fact that there had been no true reason to don them for months now.

When Draco stepped into Harry Potter's cell, the other boy looked up at him, not at all surprised that Draco had come to make this visit. Instead, the green-eyed teen glanced up from where he had made a small nest of a bed in the corner of the prison cell, quirking a small smile when Draco took another step into the room.

"You didn't sell me out," Harry observed, head tilting to the side. He had grown, Draco had noticed - grown in both maturity and height. Before today, Draco would have expected the great Harry Potter to have bragged in regards to who he was, no matter the fact that he would have doomed them all by the truth. Instead, he had bowed his head to whoever had thrown the Stinging Hex at him - probably Granger since the Mudblood had always been quick to think on her feet - and had silently asked Draco to let him live, all the while staring at the Malfoy heir with those green, green eyes. May-green, life-green, Killing Curse-green, the green the color of his mother's favorite emeralds. There had been that request within that gaze, but acceptance, too, if Draco had been willing to sell the other boy out.

So much had changed in so little time, for the both of them.

"No, I didn't. Which means that you now owe me a life-debt," Draco whispered softly as he continued to make his way deeper into the room. He closed the door behind himself, eyes intent upon Harry's still form. A waiting sort of still, that tenseness, not the stillness that came after the sessions where the Dark Lord had made Draco play with his victims before ending them. The blonde shivered at that, arms wrapping tight around his belly for just a moment, and then allowed them to drop to his sides.

"You're here now. Which means that you probably want to be paid."

"Yes," the pureblood wizard said, reply simple. He knew what he wanted, what he had been desperate for over the course of the past several months: so much, so badly, so desperately, Draco wanted to be reminded that he was human. He needed another to remind him that he was _alive_. "Everyone speaks about how you're the Savior of the Wizarding World, Potter. I'm not asking for much: just save _me_."

He eased down then, moving to the eye level of the boy with those green, green eyes; he reached out, and Harry Potter met him half way: fingers tangling with one another, their lips pressed chastely against one another's. For just a moment, both held their breaths so that this perfect touch of skin against skin could last as long as possible - wishing, perhaps, that time could freeze into this impossible second where enemies bowed low within each other's hold and took comfort in the other's presence.

But it was impossible for time to hold ever still, and the second broke: tantalizingly, Draco parted his lips so that he might trace Harry's lower lip with the tip of his tongue. His movements were slow, languid - almost as if he were moving underwater as the blonde's hands came up to bury in the unruly hair, hair that was as dark as a raven's wing. He cupped the back of Harry's head before gently encouraging him closer still.

And Harry responded:

His lips parted beneath Draco's curiously inquisitive touch, coaxing the blonde's tongue into the warmth of his mouth. Playfully, Harry sucked, which then brought a low, broken moan to puddle at the base of the older teen's throat. His fingers flexed in Harry's hair, tugging at the impossibly untameable strands; burying deeper, pressing closer - deepening the kiss so that he might trace the edges of Harry's teeth. Draco found a small chip at the edge of one particular tooth and, fascinated, he spent more than a bit of time exploring the sharp edge, learning it as Harry's body arched beneath his own.

"Draco," Harry whispered when the kiss finally broke, and the Gryffindor let his head fall forward, pressing his face against the bend of the pale teen's throat: the darker boy breathed in the clean scent of soap and the tang of scent, tongue darting out to lick away some of the salt that beaded at the hollow of Draco's throat. The blonde shivered in reaction, eyes falling shut as his head tilted back; position vulnerable, Draco bared his throat for the other boy - an impossible situation, a position that he would have trusted with none other, not when the sharp edges of Harry's teeth were so very, very close to the beating pulse at the bend of his neck.

But...

Was there truly anything left to fear...?

Harry's mouth nuzzled against the underside of Draco's jaw, murmuring something about how Draco had missed a spot shaving - but then that talented tongue was once more tasting his skin, and Draco tightened his hold in Harry's hair. He was careful when he drew the other away, almost unnecessarily so, but Draco wanted to meet those_ impossibly green eyes _as he slowly and methodically pushed the other teen onto his back.

"I want," Draco said, simply.

Harry smiled at that, the expression sweetly innocent. It contrasted, though, with how he began to carefully unbutton the clasps that kept Draco's robes closed, shifting closer when skin was bared so that he might press small, nipping little kisses over the blonde's pale torso. They would leave behind bruises, small red ones that would be patterned over his skin - bruises from bites that would take days to heal, though Draco hoped _weeks_.

"Remind me that I'm still alive," Harry whispered, lips brushing against the skin over Draco's heart with each and every word.

The pureblooded wizard shuddered at the sensation, and a hand reburied itself in Harry's hair - tugging the other teen's head back so that he could press an almost possessive kiss against the throbbing pulse that he found there and, firmly, Draco began to push Harry back upon the pile of blankets that made his bed.

Gaze mesmerized by Harry's own, Draco never once broke eye contact as he began to carefully undo the buttons at Harry's waistband. As Draco drew Harry's trousers down, taking the other's pants with them, the dark-haired Gryffindor arched up in welcome, in encouragement, and Draco couldn't stop himself from tracing his eyes up those slim legs (nevermind the fact that Harry's knees were knobby), skipping shyly over the other teen's groin (for now), drinking in the sight of the quickly rise and fall of Harry's chest (in excitement? in anticipation? in slight fear as to what was to come? Draco didn't know, but he knew that he would soon enough find out), and... Draco never expected his attention to be caught by Harry's face. A plain face, one that showed the old Potter blood - a _sturdy _face, but never one that would be _beautiful_. Until Harry smiled. The smile that Harry gave Draco in answer was impossibly sweet, though the look in his eyes - the _look_ -

Oh, those _eyes_.

Those fucking _eyes_.

"We're alive," Draco said before moving closer; he settled between Harry's thighs, using his weight to pin the other down before claiming Harry's mouth in a hungry kiss - one in which Harry arched up to meet him, legs hooking over Draco's hips to draw the slightly older teen closer still. Kiss for kiss, Harry met him, and when the boy beneath him arched invitingly, Draco could only moan in answer and allow himself to be lost in the sensation.

He was _alive_.

And those eyes. Those impossibly _verdant-green_ eyes.

**.:End:.**


	2. Neverland

_Author's Note:_ The first part was supposed to be it, but then I was asked to continue _Paphian_. I haven't written anything _hardcore_ M in a while, sooo… XD;; I decided that I couldn't resist the temptation. However, this _is_ the last part, so I hope that you enjoy it~ (I know that Harry and Draco did.)

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**PAPHIAN  
- Neverland -**

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It was as dark as midnight down in the cell that had been assigned to the Boy-Who-Lived: midnight dark, pitch black that stroked across the chill floor in a way that would not be denied—it was utter oblivion, utter consumption, for nothing less would or could be settled for. It was the type of oblivion that coaxed away all thoughts, all inhibitions, leaving behind nothing but instinct and desire in its purest form.

_Want_.

Draco pressed his lips to Harry's pulse, letting his lips part so that he might taste the salt-slickened skin, learn how sweat beaded over the green-eyed teen's skin to trickle pathways—idle rivlets that led to nowhere. The Malfoy heir allowed his eyes to close as his tongue laved at the bend of Harry's throat, lingering to feel the thunder of the other teen's pulse harsh against the tip of his tongue, and it was with a moan that was barely stifled that he felt Harry's nimble, Seeker hands work at the buttons to his trousers.

"Make me forget. Make me remember. Make me feel like I'm _alive_," Draco whispered against the other's damp skin; he shuddered, then, when Harry's fingers wrapped around his cock to stroke slowly. The Gryffindor took his time in learning the shape of the blonde erection against the slightly rough skin of his palm, caressing up and down the flushed skin. Draco could _feel _Harry's smile, though the Slytherin could not _see _it: but that was acceptable, just as long as the other continued on with those slow, idle touches.

There was something magical about those touches, though Draco realized that there truly wasn't. This was a quick fuck in his family's manor home; there would be no promises of eternity with one another, no whispered endearments, no promises of love. But the blonde knew that that was something that he did not want, not now.

He needed to be reminded that there was something out there, something _good_, something that remained besides the Death that resided within the one-time hallowed halls of his ancestral home. The one thing that he had, once upon a time ago, considered sacred had been taken from him. Now... now, the boy was desperate to reply it with something, _anything_, that could remain untouchable within his mind. Something that could be considered pure, though still connected to this world -

And, here, he could find it in the welcoming warmth of Harry Potter's arms, the heat of his body.

"More," Draco whispered huskily as his hips began to move in tandem with Harry's strokes, loving the way that the other teen's fingers clasped him loosely for most of his length before tugging - just so - once svelte fingers reached the velvety skin just beneath the head of Draco's cock. To his surprise, though, Harry just chuckled in response and turned his head to the side to capture Draco's mouth with his own: kissing the pureblood, taking his time, learning the other teen's taste - the way, too, that Draco shifted just enough in an attempt to take control.

But none of that was allowed here, for Harry would only accept equality:

He rolled the two of them so that he was straddled over Draco's hips, one hand buried in the cornsilk of the other teen's hair, the other still sliding ever-so-slowly up and down Draco's erection. It was an exquisite sort of torture, one that soon enough had the blonde writhing in protest - wanting more, more, _more_ - but being refused it all by a boy with gentle eyes and a sulky-sweet smirk.

"My pace," Harry murmured - his voice was firm, husky with restrained command, dark velvet that rubbed against Draco and had him gasping quietly and arching up. The dark-haired teen shook his head then, sliding his hand down to wrap fingers snugly around the base of Draco's cock, preventing him from any future release - at least just yet. "None of that," Harry admonished before he leaned forward and began to pepper kisses along Draco's jaw and down the elegant, well-bred line of his throat.

The Gryffindor took his time in exploring the bobbing of Draco's Adam's apple, lips parting slightly to seal around that bit of skin: he sucked lightly and Draco's head tilted back as the blonde saw stars - never before had he believed that_ that_ part of him would be so sensitive. "Potter..." he began, fully intending on scolding the other teen for the pace that he was setting. But Harry only laughed lightly once more - how could he be laughing like _that_ at a time like _this_? - and shifted to once more steal a kiss.

Draco's hand buried itself in Harry's mussed hair, letting the unruly, rebellious strands wrap snugly around his fingers: he used his hold to draw Harry closer still, back to exploring that intriguing little chip that he had found during an earlier kiss. All the while, too, his free hand kept itself busy: tugging at the buttons to the Gryffindor's own trousers, uncaring in regards to whether or not he had ripped at the material. If worse came to worse, Draco would mend the tears with what few household charms he knew.

Right now, he wanted - needed, craved - _heat_.

The press of skin to skin, and it was so utterly perfect when Draco finally took his and Harry's cocks in hand to stroke them together - and the delirious _perfection_ just increased to delicious amounts when Harry's lips parted further and the black-haired teen _moaned_ throatily into their kiss. Finally, it was no longer one boy taking charge while the other lay back and embraced the pleasure: but full participation as they kissed, tongues stroking languidly as hips echoed in the erotic movement: rocking back and forth, forward and back, pressing close, closer, _closest still_ while hands caressed and tugged gently - not harshly, but just enough to elicit broken moans in response.

Full participation, pleasure welcomed with open arms -

And Draco drank it all in as the feeling of rightness surged and crested and fell upon him when Harry Potter shuddered above him and finally came, splattering his belly with his come. The boy sagged slightly onto Draco's body, breathing coming quick and harsh as the dark-haired teen panted quietly against the bend of Draco's throat.

The blonde shivered in response before turning his head to the side, licking away a thin trickling line of sweat that had begun to bead over Harry's collarbone. "I'd like your mouth..." Draco whispered quietly - all uncertain teen suddenly, silver-gray eyes quiet with the expectation that Harry would refuse since he had already found his own climax. Gone was the arrogant little boy who had approached the Savior of the Wizarding World with full expectation that the green-eyed boy would fall at his feet in awe: that child had been dead and gone, not even a ghost, for the past several years and counting.

But that child had not expected to see the things that Draco had seen, had not expected to do the things that Draco had done -

He was no longer that child, but he still oh-so desperately wanted something to remind him that he was _alive_, that this was the _present_, that there was still something that remained in this world that was filled with _heat_ - wanted something that would cause him to leave behind the chill of Death that clung to every limb, dogged every step -

And it was as that last thought lingered, echoing quietly in the vestiges, the inner depths of Draco's mind, the teen could not hold back a soft cry as _wetwarmthheat**yes**_ encircled his cock. The blonde glanced down, gaze dizzy, and found himself looking at a slightly blushing Harry - was this the first time that he had ever done this before? Draco asked himself, thoughts dazed and subdued with gratitude - whose lips were stretched tight around the Slytherin's erection: swallowing experimentally as verdant-green flickered up to gauge Draco's reaction. That cautious carefulness, the dusting of rose-deep flush that fanned over the tops of Harry's cheeks - it flooded Draco with a sort of gratitude that he had never felt before, knowing that this boy who had embraced pleasure with him was inexperienced and yet willing to do as Draco had asked - because Draco _had asked_ it of him.

The realization was enough to make Draco tremble, fingers shakily combing through Harry's hair in warning as the blonde finally found his own release: eyes screwed tight as his muscles went taut, head arching back off of the rags that Harry had been forced to use as a bed. Through it all, Harry swallowed and swallowed, hands gently caressing over the blonde's inner thighs - touch certain and surprisingly confident, only relenting when Draco collapsed completely upon the floor.

He stared up at the ceiling, blinking, and it came as a surprise when he realized that he was silently weeping.

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Harry's fingers were gentle as they combed through Draco's hair, lingering momentarily at the nape of the other teen's neck before untangling from the raw silk to once more thread his fingers through the silver-blonde strands. Draco himself lay curled around the slimmer boy, rubbing a hand in idle, almost affectionate circles over the Gryffindor's belly and chest.

Neither said anything for hours, but it was Draco who eventually broke the silence: "I just want to live."

And Harry Potter, with eyes that were far too old for the youth of his face, shifted just enough to press a kiss to the top of Draco's head before continuing his idle finger-combing. He had a life-debt to pay and, perhaps, that was the reason for his choice in words when he finally answered the broken Slytherin, "You will. I promise."

**.:End:.**


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